They say it’s a young city, and here I am, an ancient dinosaur, in those worn out jeans and leatherwear from another age. And the rucksack! Mended so many times, colourless, blended with its owner… Yet I love the streets, the smiles, the laughter, and I keep dragging along my old boots, and this silly cap, when in fact I no longer belong to the living. I am a mere memory, less than a tramp, like the thought of a traveller from yesteryears, a small cloud, perhaps.
In turn, they love me, keep telling me their stories, their pain, their discoveries. Priceless. Yes, I admit it, I feed on those tales, on the dreams of the young, on their attempts at happiness, renewal, transformation… No, please don’t misunderstand me, I don’t prey on them, I just listen, maybe risk a question from time to time. And later I write down everything: the hopes, the loves, the fights. Sometime they ask me to take a picture of them, usually, the two of them, and I never fail to let them have those pictures: small fragments of time, in the city of Faust.